


Blow It Up Your Arse

by blackmountainbones



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Canon-typical shenanigans, Crack, M/M, Peacock Dreams, Unconventional Sex Toys, but i said "no no no", girl my crack is fire, i shamelessly use all the fandom cliches and do nothing original whatsoever, jazz puns, my betas tried to make me go to rehab, shaman business, shaman drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones
Summary: Vince and Howard have been looking forward to having the flat to themselves for the weekend when Naboo and Bollo are away at ShamanCon. When their roommates return home from the convention early to watch the Peacock Dreams marathon on telly, the two hapless men need to come up with an excuse to get the shaman and his familiar off the couch and out of the house before they discover what Vince and Howard havereallybeen up to while they've been gone.





	Blow It Up Your Arse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newsonthemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsonthemoon/gifts).



> This is a silly piece of metafic, inspired by a lovely prompt from [Newsonthemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsonthemoon/pseuds/newsonthemoon), who wanted a fic addressing all the random excuses that fic writers use to get Naboo and Bollo out of the apartment so Vince and Howard can do the do. 
> 
> After writing 40k of angst in a month, I needed to cleanse my brain with some quality crack. What could a better way to feed a crack habit than writing for a show as cracked out as the Boosh? What, indeed.

It was the end of another night in Dalston. The moon hung full and bright in the sky, looking down with the kind of intensity that made the locals say that if you were to listen closely enough, you could hear it talk.

Unfortunately, contrary to the ancient lore about the wisdom of the Moon, the moon was actually a blathering idiot. For example, had you been listening to the Moon just before dawn on this lovely London night, you would have heard him muttering, “When you are the Moon, you can look into all the bedrooms on Earth at the same time. Last night I saw Magnum PI getting pegged by his ugly wife on a couch in Dalston. I have been observing human mating rituals since the dawn of homo sapiens, but never before have I wished for an asteroid to crash into my eyeballs and blind me. I’m the Moon! I need therapy!”

In the east, the sun began its climb over the horizon. The Moon began to fade, his nonsensical ramblings growing silent as the sky brightened. Thus, another day dawned in Dalston.

 

The light of the sun peeked in through the windows of a small flat above a shop on one of the many bucolic streets in this cozy London neighborhood. Two men emerged from one of the bedrooms of the small flat, running down the hall and grabbing at each others’ bums on their way to the kitchen. One man was tall, Northern, and bore a curious resemblance to a moustachioed Magnum PI. He was called Howard. The other, an androgynous Cockney bitch with hair like an uglier Joan Jett, was called Vince.

Vince and Howard, who had been best friends for many years, had recently decided to do something about the long-simmering repressed homosexual tension they shared, and both men were very satisfied with their decision to add “bumming” to the list of activities they found mutually enjoyable.

They had recently enjoyed such a night together, exploring the kind of kinky sex acts the likes of which only a thirty-two-year-old recent ex-virgin like Howard could conceive. After all, there is none so carnal as one who has recently been devirginized.

However, the two recent lovers had other appetites in mind this morning. Howard set to inspecting the contents of the refrigerator while Vince busied himself making tea. “What do you want for breakfast?” Howard asked, surveying the inventory.

“Make me pancakes?” Vince asked, looking wide-eyed and innocent.

“Pancakes are a mutual effort, Vince,” Howard scolded. He knew better than to fall for Vince’s innocent act. After all, Howard’s aching bum was currently reminding him just how innocent Vince was not.

“But I like it when you play wifey,” Vince pouted.

“Blow it up your arse,” Howard fired back, a little upset at being called “wifey”. Everyone knew Vince was the wife in this relationship… just because Howard usually bottomed, it didn’t make him any less of the man.

Vince grabbed a handful of Howard’s pumpkin arse and squeezed. It felt as satisfyingly plump in his hand as always, and made him rub up against Howard and purr suggestively, “You mean blow it up _your_ arse.”

Howard wriggled but he did not at all object to the way that Vince was fondling his arse. In fact, he may have leaned into the grope, just a bit, thinking about his and Vince’s plans for their weekend home alone.

At that very moment, a short purple blur and a hairy black blur barrelled down the hallway, narrowly avoiding crashing into the two men groping each other in the kitchen. Vince and Howard startled apart.

“Out of our way, ballbags,” Naboo grumbled, edging his way through the tight space and over to the couch, where he promptly collapsed. Bollo, whose legs were even shorter than Naboo's because he was an ape, was forced to push Naboo’s stumpy legs off the couch to make room for himself. Naboo reached for the remote and clicked the TV on, shuffling through the channels until a familiar theme song filled the room.

“Fuck yes, Peacock Dreams!” Naboo pumped his fist and turned to his familiar. “Hey Bollo, get us some tea and snacks. The marathon’s gonna start any minute, and we’re gonna need munchies!”

“Why you not get tea?” Bollo grumbled.

“I gotta pack the hookah, you great ape,” Naboo said, extracting a large bag of weed from his robes.

Bollo was a rational ape, so he sighed and made his way to the kitchen. He swiped the two mugs that were resting on the counter--Vince and Howard’s tea, which had just finished steeping.

“Hey! Those’re ours,” Vince protested, but Bollo paid him no mind and placed the two mugs on the coffee table where Naboo was busy fiddling with the large purple water pipe on the coffee table. Vince huffed, a bit annoyed, then went to refill the kettle and fine two more clean mugs.

Bollo wandered back into the kitchen and poked around the cabinets, assessing the munchies situation. “Cool, croissants,” Bollo said, snatching the box of expensive pastries off the counter.

“Hey! I bought those!” Howard cried.

“Thanks, mate,” Naboo said. “These look well good.”

“I bought them for Vince and me,” Howard moaned as the shaman and his ape stuffed their stupid stoner gobs with the expensive pastry. “What are you even doing here? Aren’t you guys supposed to be on some alien planet for a shaman convention this weekend?”

“Naboo and Bollo left early,” Bollo said.

“Yeah, this is much more important than ShamanCon,” Naboo agreed. “Peacock Dreams hasn’t even aired in 111 Earth years, and this is a marathon.”

“TV is less than 111 years old,” Howard said self-importantly.

Naboo rolled his eyes. “I know,” he said. Then he went back to watching Peacock Dreams and ignoring Howard.

“Wait,” Vince asked, “did you say this was a Peacock Dreams _marathon_?”

Bollo nodded. “Marathon 24 hours.” He and Naboo looked altogether too happy about that. “End this time tomorrow.”

Vince and Howard stood rolling their eyes in the kitchen, hardly able to believe that their weekend alone was being crashed by their roommates, who were lighting the hookah and filling the apartment with a funky-smelling smoke.

“Well, there goes our plans for the weekend,” Vince grumbled.

“Yeah,” Howard agreed, sighing a bit. He’d been really looking forward to the plans they’d made too, but with any luck, Naboo and Bollo would be away on shaman business again next weekend. The shaman and his familiar seemed to be unusually busy lately, out of town more often than not, and Howard supposed he and Vince had gotten a bit spoiled by the freedom having the flat to themselves afforded them. They’d even been cocky enough to--

Howard froze, remembering the items he and Vince had stuffed in the couch last night. “Vince," Howard said, looking stricken, “we have to get Naboo and Bollo of the couch.”

“Why? There are other places to sit around here...”

“Vince,” Howard said, “you _know_ why.”

Vince looked at him blankly. “No, I don’t.”

“Vince. Remember what we left in the couch last night?”

“Um…. no?”

Howard leaned in to whisper Vince reminder. Whatever it was that Howard whispered in Vince’s ear, it made him go red, turn to Howard, and say in a very serious voice, “Howard, we’ve got to get Naboo and Bollo off the couch.”

They would not have very much time. Once Bollo ate his first weed brownie, he would be very, very hard to move.

 

“What the hell are we going to do?” Vince whispered frantically. He and Howard were drinking tea in his room, trying to formulate a plan.

“Well, maybe you could use your phone to call the flat, and I can say Dennis called with some emergency shaman business?” Howard suggested.

“Or we could tell them that the owl harvest came early this year.”

Howard nodded. “These are all very good ideas, Vince. We should write this down.” He looked at Vince’s desk, which was covered in colorful scraps of fabric. “You don’t have a pen and paper in here, do you?”

“Ugh, Howard, you know I’m allergic to stationary,” Vince huffed. “That’s why I never mess with your stupid Stationary Village. I get hives.”

“Just wanted to write down our Plan of Action,” Howard tried to explain.

“ _Real_ men of action don’t need lists. They’re too busy actin’ to be writin’ stuff down,” Vince pointed out.

Howard couldn’t argue with that logic, so he didn’t try.

 

Vince and Howard headed down the hall to the kitchen, clutching their empty teacups. Naboo and Bollo were still sitting on the couch, watching television and stonedly munching pastries.

Howard cleaned out their old mugs and got them fresh teabags while Vince pretended to busy himself. He reached down into his pocket and covertly punched the flat telephone number into his mobile.

The phone rang, and Howard jumped for it. “Oh hello, Dennis? You’re looking for Naboo?” He pretended to listen to the receiver for an awkwardly long time, making the occasional affirmative sound. “You have some secret and urgent shaman business? And you can’t tell me what it is, but I’m supposed to tell Naboo that it’s mandatory and he’s needs to get his short arse back to the Shaman Con?”

“You gettin’ this, Naboo? Bollo?” Vince asked. “Dennis called about an emergency meeting of the shaman council?”

Naboo reached over the back of the couch and flipped him the bird. “Tell him that Peacock Dreams is on. He’ll understand,” Naboo said.

“I can’t tell him that. He hung up,” Howard said, putting the phone back on the wall.

“Well, I’m not going to tell him either,” Naboo said, turning back to the TV.

Vince and Howard shot each other an annoyed look. Typical Naboo.

Not one to be so easily defeated, Howard wandered over to the bookshelf and pulled Naboo’s Shaman’s Almanac off the shelf. He opened the book and flipped the pages open. “Hmmm,” he said, stroking his moustache, “Shaman’s Almanac says that it’s um, time for the owl harvest. Their, um, beak production is at an all-time high, right now. Interesting, very interesting….”

“Stupid Howard, owl harvest not until October,” Bollo grunted.

“No, they changed it... and today is the start of the new owl harvesting season….”

Naboo reached over and grabbed the almanac. He scanned the page Howard had marked and frowned, then skipped a few pages forward. “Aha, yes: on the first new moon after autumn equinox. The owl harvest starts on October 28th this year.”

“Let me see that,” Howard said, snatching back the almanac.

“Anyone can read the Shaman’s Almanac, but few can understand it,” Naboo said enigmatically, then turned back to the TV.

“Howard no understand almanac at all,” Bollo grunted.

“That’s because Howard is an idiot,” Naboo said, turning the volume up on the TV and sinking back into the couch.

Howard sighed, and Vince shot him a meaningful look, a look that said, Let me handle this, so Howard decided to let him.

Vince pulled out his mobile. “Naboo, guess what? I just got a text from those goth girls.” He prodded at some random buttons, pretending to be text furiously. “They’re in a graveyard, they’ve found an open crypt--and they’re _randy_.” He poked the keypad a few more times. “They want you to bring your ape and some E and a whole bunch of poppers…”

Naboo snorted, looking nonplussed. “Can you tell them I’ll text them back after the Peacock Dreams marathon?”

“They’re not gonna be there for too much longer,” Vince protested. “Only an hour at the _most_.”

“Oh well,” Naboo sighed. He and Bollow stuffed enormous handfuls of popcorn in their mouths and settled back into the couch cushions.

Howard shot Vince a panicked glance, and Vince rolled his eyes. “Guys, I can’t tell two hot and horned Goth girls that you can't shag them because you’re watching alien sitcoms on the telly!"

“If Vince want bang Goth girls so bad, why Vince not go instead?” Bollo askes, not bothering to look away from the TV.

“You can take Howard,” Naboo advised.

“I can’t take Howard to meet the goth girls,” Vince whined. “He told them he shites on dead people. They think he’s well perverted.”

“I never said I took a shite on a dead person! I said I did a shite on a grave; those two things are completely different,” Howard complained.

“That’s still well weird,” Vince argued.

“Vince,” Howard hissed, “this isn’t about what’s weird and what isn’t weird. This is about the fact that Naboo and Bollo are still on the couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Vince shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “I almost forgot.”

“Focus, you magpie,” Howard groaned.

Luckily, the kettle boiled at that moment, and the two men went back down the hall to Vince’s room to plot with fresh tea to help them come up with a fresh plot for getting their roommates out of the flat for a while.

 

“I _hate_ that show,” Vince whined, flopping back on his cluttered bed. He hadn’t been sleeping in here much lately, and the mess was admittedly a bit… everywhere. “I’ve been watching it all morning, and there are no peacocks, and as far as I can tell, there aren’t even any dreams. Everyone is awake.”

“Christy, it’s _awful_ ,” Howard groaned. Hours had passed, and Naboo and Bollo had not moved an inch. Of course, four hours ago they’d consumed their first weed brownies, and now they were contentedly stuck in place on the couch. “All the characters are completely unlikeable, and nothing about it makes any sense.”

“Howard, none of those awful Danish experimental films you watch make any sense either,” Vince pointed out.

“All of the awful Danish experimental films I watch make perfect sense,” Howard insisted, though he did not volunteer any examples of how or why.

Vince was relieved Howard did not elaborate. He didn’t want to talk about boring Danish experimental films ever again. “Maybe we should, I don’t know, just ask them to leave?” Vince suggested. Nothing else had worked so far.

Howard looked at him, aghast. “That’s a terrible idea, Vince!”

Vince shrugged. The movement made the shoulder of his robe fall open, and he did not miss the way Howard was eyeing the exposed bit of chest. Vince cocked his head, a little smile curling at the corner of his mouth when Howard took a forceful step forward--

Only to tug Vince’s robe back over his shoulder aggressively. “Oi!” Vince shouted, shrugging him off, feeling a bit miffed about getting the neither the kiss he’d expected nor the shag he’d hoped for. “We’ve tried all our other ideas already.”

Howard sat and stroked his moustache, deep in thought. “Maybe we could go somewhere?”

“But where would we go?” Vince asked. “We don’t have any money for a hotel.”

Still stroking his moustache, Howard asked, “Leroy’s?”

Vince shook his head. “No, his flat is a studio.”

Howard grimaced and thought some more. “How about Lester Corncrake? He has a three-bedroom.”

“No way,” Vince said, making a face, “he’s not been right since they put his head back on.”

Howard had to agree Vince had a point. “It’s a shame. They really botched that reconstructive surgery.”

“Yeah,” Vince agreed. Lester had gone wrong both in looks and in mind lately. Perhaps having his head severed had triggered dementia, probably from the lack of air or blood or something, though it did not explain why his head was now on crooked. The overall effect was disconcerting.

The two men sat and thought in silence. Unfortunately, they did not know very many people. Well, they’d met lots of people during their various adventures, but most of them were annoying, psychotic, and/or shaman. They were the kind of people that made you want to escape _from_ them, not to them.

“Well, there is the van,” Vince suggested when it was clear they’d run out of options.

“Ugh, no way,” Howard said. “That’s Naboo’s new mobile meth lab. It’s well toxic. We can’t shag in there. We’ll get chemical burns on our bollocks.”

“Oh, yeah.” Vince remembered now that Naboo had warned them not to go inside the van without wearing full biohazard gear. “Well, this is well pointless,” he groaned. “Everyone we know lives in shite apartments, our van is now a meth lab, and Naboo is still on the couch.”  
  
“Look, let’s just tell him we saw Crack Fox in the alley again,” Howard said.

Because Vince had no better ideas, he said _fine_.

 

Neither man was exactly surprised when their plan failed to have the desired effect.

“Well, that was a dumb idea,” Vince said. He tossed the huge box of binbags Naboo had forced him to carry into the back alley to deal with the Crack Fox onto the asphalt with a groan.

“Look I didn’t know he was going to make us come back here with an economy-size box of binbags,” Howard said a bit pathetically. He dropped his own box of binbags on his foot, and he cursed and hopped up and down. Perhaps he should rethink his choice of socks and sandals as appropriate footwear for this kind of work….

“What do we do now?” Vince asked, kicking the box of binbags.

Howard shrugged, still hopping around on one foot. “Go back inside and say we saw Nanatoo in the craft shop across the street?”

 

When they got upstairs, their arms conspicuously empty of binbags, Naboo and Bollo were right where they’d left them. Mysteriously, their coffee table was full of exotic snacks, each of them likely infused with an intergalactic array of hallucinogens.

“Did you find the Crack Fox?” Naboo called over his shoulder, still staring at the telly and shoving another fistful of popcorn in his gob.

“Nah, Ol’ Cracky got away before we could get 'im,” Vince lied.

“I think we saw Nanatoo out there,” Howard said. “You guys should probably look into that. She's well dangerous.”

Naboo and Bollo shared an exasperated look. “Listen, me and Bollo know why you guys keep trying to make us leave the flat,” Naboo said.

“We’re not trying to _make_ you leave--” Howard began.

“We just don't want you to miss out on all the fun stuff that’s happening today for some dumb telly,” Vince finished.

“If so much fun stuff happen, why Howard and Vince stay here?” Bollo asked.

Howard and Vince had no answer to that question that would not reveal their fledgling sexual relationship to their roommates, so Vince shrugged and Howard flushed.

“Alright, we get it,” Naboo sighed. “You idiots were expecting to have the apartment to yourselves so you could spend all weekend putting things into each others’ bums. That’s well good and all, but--”

“But Bollo and Naboo watch Peacock Dreams,” Bollo said helpfully.

“Yeah,” Naboo said. “So we are going to sit right here and turn the volume up way, way loud, and me and Bollo are gonna watch Peacock Dreams and everyone is going to be normal and pretend that you guys aren’t getting off with each other.”

“Wait, what?” Vince sputtered, just as Howard squealed, “No sir, that’s not why--”

“Can you do us a favor and use Vince’s room?” Naboo continued. “It’s all the way down the hallway, so if we’re lucky we won’t be able to hear you at all.”

“Can we all just take a moment here--”

“You two knew we were bummin’?”

“Vince--”

Bollo crossed his long hairy arms over his chest and glared. “Me and Naboo know you two bummin’ because we shaman.”

“We have _powers_ ,” Naboo said ominously. “You guys didn’t figure out why we’ve been out of the flat every weekend for the last month? It’s because we know you spend the entire time being depraved together. Now go away.”

Vince and Howard did not go away. They stood and looked at each other, awkwardly seething with a sexual tension that had been frustrated for hours.

“Do whatever nasty things you need to do, but just keep it behind closed doors. Not on the couch.” Naboo repeated, giving Howard and Vince a meaningful look while Bollo mimed retching.

Howard turned red, thinking of the thorough bumming Vince had given him on those cushions just last night. “N-no sir,” he stammered. “No, uh, couch bumming. Got it.”

Vince, the little prick, laughed. It made Howard blush harder, which Vince found irrestible. He slung an arm around Howard’s waist and gave his pumpkin arse a good grope, which only made Howard’s blushing problem worse. “C’mon, Howard,” he said, big blue eyes twinkling. There wasn’t much point in trying to get Bollo and Naboo off the couch now. Hopefully, after the Peacock Dreams marathon was over, the shaman and his familiar would go to sleep, and he and Howard would be able to get their… stuff… out of the couch with their housemates none the wiser. “Reckon it’s time you got that bummin’ I promised ya.” He squeezed Howards ass one last time, meaningfully.

“Behind closed door!” Bollo said, turning to wag an accusatory finger at the offensively public display of affection so aggressively that he tipped over into the space between the couch cushions.

It took a few minutes before Naboo was finally able to pull Bollo out of the couch, and the ape emerged clutching a small trombone and and an extra-large vat of Vaseline. The shaman and his familiar stood and examined the mysterious items, eyes flickering between the trombone, the Vaseline, and their roommates, who were standing in the hallway engaged in some kind of foreplay that involved Howard’s bum and Vince’s hands. It did not take long for the two magical beings to divine exactly what kind of omen they were.

“Gross!” Bollo cried, and tossed the offending items at Howard’s arse. They bounced off.

“I can’t play trumpet without Vaseline! My, uh, my lips get chapped!” Howard protested, kneeling to gather the offending items. All things considered, he was really happy Bollo had given the trombone and the Vaseline back--Howard and Vince had had plans for today, after all.

Naboo and Bollo looked skeptical. Then the shaman reached into the couch and pulled out the well-used copy of Tromboner with Howard Moon on the cover that Howard and Vince had stashed between the cushions late last night.

Howard, try as he might, could not come up with an explanation that would not incriminate him further.

“Oh, Howard,” Naboo sighed, “blow it up your arse.” He tossed the filthy rag directly into Howard’s nose. Then he and Bollo fiddled with some knobs on the TV, turning the volume up something that was making the empty mugs on the kitchen counter vibrate a bit.

Vince laughed, pecking a kiss onto the red mark the projectile porn magazine left on Howard’s long nose. The little gesture of affection only made Howard kick at the magazine and grumble vague noises of malcontent. “Hey, careful with that!” Vince scolded. “It’s very rare, and I’m very… fond… of it.”

Howard made that scandalized expression again, but the effect was ruined somewhat by the bulge in his trousers.

Vince noticed. He grinned and obliged Howard with a by copping a feel of Howard’s half-hard prick, which made the bigger man squeal and drop the trombone.

“C'mon, Howard,” Vince said, leaning down to pick up the trombone and the magazine. “I reckon it's about time for us to get to bed.”

Howard threw the Vaseline at him, but Vince was a considerate lover, so he made sure to pick it up as he followed Howard down the hall to the bedroom. After all, Howard had been looking forward to this for weeks now. Vince would hate to disappoint him by running out of lube: as the top in their relationship, Vince took Howard’s pleasure seriously. Very seriously, indeed.

“Let’s get this trombone in your bum, Howard,” Vince announced cheekily, ignoring Naboo and Bollo, whose shrieks of In the bedroom, ballbags! echoed down the hall. “I’ve been waiting so long I'm about to jazz my pants!”

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? The muse is a filthy slut, so slap that kudos button and make the comments box your bitch.
> 
> PS: My ask box is open & I'm taking prompts over Tumblr at [the-stoned-ranger](https://the-stoned-ranger.tumblr.com) (Mighty Boosh slash and gen, Mighty Boosh RPF). Hit me up with a prompt and help me keep the muse happy!


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